


Phantom Hand

by WhiskyNotTea



Series: Whisky's Other Outlander Tales [7]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 23:43:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16073855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskyNotTea/pseuds/WhiskyNotTea
Summary: Fergus contemplates the loss of his hand. Set in 'A Breath of Snow and Ashes', before Henry-Christian is born.





	Phantom Hand

Marsali walked away, heading towards the Big House, her protruding belly slowing down her steps. Her hair shone under the sunlight, a fierce yellow, holding a piece of the sun’s color, its power, its warmth. Fergus watched his wife, entranced, until one of Claire’s bees buzzed in the air in front of his face, aiming for his nose. Without thinking about it, he raised his hand and waved it away. **  
**

His hand - it was a joke,  _certainement_.

A filled glove. Fingers made of leather and bran. The ghost of a hand, scaring people away, whispering a story they couldn’t hear.

He’d seen their reaction, one time too many. Surprise, disgust, pity. And yet, that lifeless extension of his arm had passed for his hand for so many years, that he actually considered it normal. Most of the time.

This was who he was. A man minus a hand - but with a cock.

He chuckled to himself at the thought of his wedding, Father Fogden insisting Marsali marry anyone else but him, only to end up having her glaring at him, stating loud and clear, for everyone to hear, that she wanted Fergus. Him, an incomplete man. And yet, she didn’t care.

She’d never cared. Not when she’d met him, timid under her mother’s supervision. Not when she’d eloped with him, determined, daring her stepfather to send her back. Not once, during all their years together.

It was because of her that his hand didn’t matter to him that often. All it took was one of her naughty winks or one of their children’s laughs and he forgot everything. They were the most important part of his life. But sometimes it struck him, a thought tearing through the air like a sharp ax, splitting everything in two. They didn’t known who he’d been, before that bastard redcoat had cut his hand.

Of all the people on the Ridge, only two souls had known him back then. The skillful pickpocket in Paris, swift and clever, sneaking the valuables from people’s pockets before they even realized he was there. Back then, when his hands were his most worthy possession.

Milady and Milord, they knew.

They had given him a house, a family, a name. Decency. They remembered the curly-headed French lad who had been part of their plotting, part of their plan to protect Scotland. That was how he knew them; young and invincible, determined. They too had changed, not because of clothes or years, but because of life’s weight on their shoulders. A life that hadn’t been kind to them. And yet, when they looked at each other, their smiles were the same, their frowns, their challenging glances. They might have been broken in their past but they were now restored. All limbs attached. Legs and arms and hearts together and whole.

Whole, in a way he’d never be.

The irony of life. He was born Claudel - his name literally meaning cripple - and he had always thought he’d be a cripple in heart; cripple in love. It was a miracle to him when he found he had a chance to be whole, that he had a heart wanted by someone. Someone who gave him a strong name. But destiny doesn’t give up that easily. If he was to have a heart, he’d have to lose something else. He would always be a cripple.

He lost his hand because his heart was whole… And what was a hand compared to a heart?

No one made him think less of himself. Milord had kept him - as he’d promised. Mrs. and Mr. Murray had treated him as one of their own sons. Young Jamie and Rabbie had been real friends, brothers even - teasing and supporting him.

He smiled during the day, pretending he was strong, that he didn’t care. He made jokes, talked about France, the Rising, the way he led the English away from the cave and stood up to them. He was a hero who fought the redcoats as Milord would have done. While he would always be pained by the loss, he could never regret his actions that day. He’d do it again if he needed to.

It was at night, when pain woke him up, when Milord was away and the Murrays were sleeping in their rooms that he cried silently, tears rolling down his cheeks before they met the pillow, sobs swallowed in fear of disturbing the quietness of the house. Eyes fixed on the emptiness where his hand once was.

His missing hand. A part of him, lost forever.

It wasn’t just the flesh, the palm, the long, deft fingers. It was the essence of it that he missed.

Mr. Murray had found him once, after Milord was captured and imprisoned, crying for the loss of his hand.

Mr. Murray had sat next to him, light brown eyes compassionate with understanding. “What we’ve lost is gone,” he’d said. “What we were, never to come back.” He’d wrapped his arm around Fergus’ thin shoulders and pulled him closer. A father’s embrace. “Ye have to carry yourself in this world with pride, lad. For what you’ve done. We lost a few parts in the process, the two of us, aye,” he said and smiled wistfully, “but we are not less than we were. Ye might have got a hand o’ bran and a heid full o’ clot,” he said and ruffled Fergus’ hair, “but ye’ve got a heart o’ gold, too. Dinna forget it. They are all parts of who ye are.”

Part of who he was.

He hadn’t quite understood back then. It took him years to grasp Mr. Murray’s meaning. But even after he had, when Fergus knew deep inside that he’d been right, there were still moments when phantom fingers itched to tickle Joanie’s neck, when a phantom palm ached to feel the fullness of Marsali’s breast.

Marsali, his petite Marsali, who saw him as whole, as enough.

And yet, he felt like less.

He felt like less when he saw Roger throwing Jem up in the air to catch him again, laughing, with his two hands. He felt like less when his wife’s calloused hands ran over his body, heavy and sore from working for both of them.

Those days Fergus saw the phantom of the person he could have been, capable and whole, living on the Ridge among family and supporting them with a man’s work. With two hands of flesh to caress his children’s cheeks. Two hands with bones and veins, to run over his wife’s body, to feel the kicks of their unborn child under calluses and cuts.

Blood, and happiness, and pain - where he could only find emptiness and the haunting shimmer of a ghost.


End file.
